


A Skull Is For Life (The first ever Johnald fan fic)

by believeinsh2012



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Case Fic, Gen, Johnald, M/M, No Johnlock, Other, Smut, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinsh2012/pseuds/believeinsh2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ronny goes missing, John is forced to come to Sherlock for help. Can they put aside their differences on one last case together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Skull Is For Life (The first ever Johnald fan fic)

**Author's Note:**

> "Johnald" is a BBC Sherlock based ship between John Watson and Ronald (Ronny) Raines. It was invented by some of my roleplaying friends on Facebook and I basically ended up shipping it really hard because their roleplays were so amazing and John and Ronny were so sweet together as a couple.
> 
> I've listed Ronny as an OC in the relationship tags because he sort of is, but he is based on Sherlock's Skull. He actually IS (or was), Sherlock's Skull, but he was reincarnated and came back to life. 
> 
> He originally worked for the CIA but was a bad gambler and got himself into trouble with some serious people. He came to England and ended up asking Sherlock for help. Sherlock refused and the next day Ronny was shot and died in a back alley somewhere in London. Sherlock ended up with his skull, which he kept on the mantelpiece, then Ronny was brought back to life by a weird spell. He and John fell in love, which resulted in a big falling out between Sherlock and John.
> 
> At the start of this fic, John and Ronny are now living together and things are still very tense and difficult between them and Sherlock.
> 
> If you need more of an explanation as to the ship, I made a website http://www.johnald.co.uk which has links to their blog and Facebook pages etc.
> 
> OH, and by the way, Ronny swears a lot, and he and John have lots random cute nicknames for each other.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t believe in the supernatural, but when the skull he’d been keeping on his mantelpiece came back to life as a fully functional human being then proceeded to run off and enter into a gay relationship with his once best friend, he began to question the evidence of his own eyes. As always, he needed data to prove the facts. There had to be a reasonable, logical explanation. There always was. For everything. He just had to find it. And in order to do that, he needed to conduct experiments, tests, and lots of them. He’d been waiting for the opportunity to obtain a severed head for a while now, and this would be the second he had worked on. The first was several months ago now, but he’d been forced to throw it away after Mrs Hudson’s repeated complaints over the smell of rotting flesh. He had, however, obtained some interesting results, and had over 60 pages of notes on the subject, despite feeling that he was no closer to a satisfying conclusion. It had become something of an obsession, and at least it kept him sufficiently occupied in between cases.

He dropped it into the plastic bag and slung it carelessly over his shoulder, darting slightly nervous glances left and right as he quickly made towards the double doors at the back of the morgue. What he was doing was more than technically illegal, of course, but it wasn’t as if the guy needed his head any more. It had almost come clean off during his unfortunate collision with a high speed train and it had only taken an extra couple of tugs to remove it completely. He knew he’d make much better use of it back at Baker Street than they ever would in here.

“Sherlock…?”

He stopped in his tracks, his hand on the door about to push it open and complete his hasty retreat. He’d been so close.

“Molly,” he turned to face her with his best fake friendly grin. “How are we this evening?”

“What are you doing sneaking around?” She asked, giving him a small smile in return. “What’s in the bag?” She nodded towards it, taking a step towards him. She wasn’t stupid. She knew he’d probably just stolen some kind of body part.

“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just a bag. Anyway, nice chatting. Got to go.” And with that he swiftly turned again, a swish of his long coat and he was gone, striding purposely through the corridors and back out onto the street. Molly sighed and picked up her clipboard, ready to start her evening shift. It was another hour before she noticed the missing head, by which time Sherlock was long gone.

 

***

 

Ronny Raines had tea making down to a fine art, which he thought was pretty fucking good for an American. Those English sure did love their tea. It was a skill he’d honed and practised for one man and one man only, and he always had it timed perfectly right for when John returned back from a hard day’s work at the hospital. Setting the cup down carefully on the kitchen table, he just had time for a quick round of toast and peanut butter before he heard the key turn in the lock and the soft footsteps of his gentle adorable fiancee.

“Hey Boo,” he grinned, turning round and leaning his back casually against the work surface, his tall frame slouching to one side as he allowed himself a moment to cast his eyes rovingly up and down John’s body.

“Hey Pooky,” John sighed, managing a small smile as he wearily took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. He walked round towards the slender American and wrapped his arms around him.

Ronny brought him closer for a hug and kissed the top of his head, his nostrils instantly filling with his sweet unique smell. “How was your day?”

“Mm…fine. Tiring,” John muttered. “Glad to be home. How was yours?”

“Lazy. And pretty fucking boring to be honest.” He pulled back slightly from their embrace and tilted John’s chin up with his left index finger, leaning forward to press their lips together in a tender kiss. “I missed you, baby boy.”

“I missed you too, kitten,” John smiled, returning the little kiss happily.

“I made you tea.”

“I noticed. Thank you.”

The doctor gave an involuntary yawn as he turned to pick up the cup and take a sip.

“Want to have it in bed?” Ronny suggested. “I could give you a massage or something.”

“Mm…sounds good,” John smiled, cradling the warm tea in his hands as he walked through to the bedroom. “Join me when you’ve finished playing with your peanut butter,” he called over his shoulder with a chuckle.

Ronny blushed and turned back to the counter, hastily putting the lid back on the jar and replacing it in the fridge before hurrying through to join John in bed.

Resting the tea down on the bedside table, the already sleepy doctor tugged off his jumper and dropped it to the floor, kicking off his shoes and socks and undoing his jeans, stepping out of them before lying back down on the bed in only his shirt and boxers. Ronny smiled and slid down next to him, his large hands fiddling at the buttons on his boyfriend’s shirt, unfastening them one by one, a teasing look in his eyes. He bent himself over John’s chest, kissing each beautiful inch of flesh as it was slowly revealed. John sighed happily and closed his eyes, enjoying the attention he was receiving, allowing it to relax him, forgetting about everything except Ronny’s soft lips sending shivers right down to his toes. Ronny peeled back the shirt and began to kiss his tummy, occasionally making little circles with his tongue, sensing the change in John’s breathing and knowing this was turning him on. John reached down a hand and ran it into the American’s soft dark hair, sighing quietly.

“Feel good, baby boy?” Ronny whispered, his fingers now teasing at the waistband of John’s boxers, the formations of an erection rather prominent against the outline of the fabric.

“Mm…yes.”

“You just lie there and relax,” he ordered the doctor. “You’ve had a hard day at work and Pooky’s gonna take care of you.”

John gave a little chuckle, raising his hips off the bed slightly as Ronny peeled down his boxers.

“Ahh…God Ronny,” John gave a gentle gasp and raised his hips ever so slightly, trying his best not to buck into Ronny’s beautiful mouth as he went straight in for the kill, diving down to between John’s legs, swirling his tongue round and round, making the tip of his length wet and slippy with his saliva, then applying some more serious suction, swallowing down the spit and concentrating on the amazing taste.

“Mmm…” He sat up to take a small breath. “Fucking cinnamon,” he grinned then dived back in again, taking him right to the back of his throat and making himself choke slightly.

John’s little chuckle at Ronny’s remark turned into a yelp and a moan as pleasure rocked through his body. He reached a hand down and ran it through his fiancee’s messy dark hair, ruffling it through his fingers and tugging slightly.

“Ohhh, that’s good, kitten,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Mm…very good.” Ronny placed his hands on John’s thighs and patiently continued, keeping the pace slow and steady to give his Boo as much pleasure as possible. There was nothing like a decent blow job to help one unwind after work.

After a few minutes of quiet moans and stifled gasps, he felt John tensing up, the grip on his hair getting tighter and the muscles in his thighs stiffening.

“Ronny,” he whined, a tone of desperation in his voice. “I’m going to – ”

Ronny ignored him and kept going until he brought him completely over the edge, feeling the taste of him filling his mouth, sliding down the back of his throat as he took an eager gulp before slowly pulling himself away. John looked flushed and breathless, a relaxed smile on his face.

“Good?” Ronny asked, peering up at him.

“Mm, yep.” John released his grip on Ronny’s hair and ruffled it affectionately.

“Come here,” he mumbled, beckoning him up to the top of the bed. “Cuddle time.” Ronny obeyed, scooting himself up and resting his head down on the pillow. John hooked his leg over to bring their bodies close together, the pair of them looking into each other’s eyes.

“I love you, baby boy,” Ronny sighed, kissing the top of his head.

“I love you too, little one,” John whispered, his eyes already closing as he began to drift off to sleep, exhausted.

Ronny smiled and cuddled up to him, happy to get some shut eye nestled into the Brit’s chest, listening to the gentle thudding of his heartbeat and ignoring his now almost painful, unattended erection. He could wait. All that mattered was that his Boo was happy.

 

***

 

Ronny cradled the shopping basket over one arm as he wandered blearily through the aisles, still not fully awake. He’d gotten quite used to a morning cup of tea since being with John, and it felt strange to go out without it, but in this case, he’d had no choice. They were all out of milk. He’d left him dozing in bed and gone out to get it.

Stocking up on some extra peanut butter whilst he was at it, he headed to the self checkout and ran the items through one by one, taking extra care to make sure he put them in the bag properly so the woman inside the machine wouldn’t shout at him. It always kind of freaked him out when she did that.

Paying with cash then heading outside, he set off walking the short distance back to their cosy but comfortable Chelsea flat. He couldn’t help notice a guy on the other side of the street was stood in the doorway of a closed shop and staring at him. Ronny stared back, then shrugged his shoulders and continued walking, never one to be intimidated by some weirdo he didn’t know.

Turning the corner onto the quieter stretch of road that approached the flat, he heard footsteps behind him, getting quicker, closer. He took a casual glance over his shoulder, intending to slow down and let whoever it was past. He was in no hurry himself, but he knew it always annoyed the hell out of him when someone was blocking the sidewalk and being a slow coach. Sorry, path, pavement, whatever the fuck they called it in England. He was still in the habit of thinking in American most of the time.

He got quite the surprise when he realised the guy behind him was the suspicious looking dude from the doorway. Was he following him? What the fuck for? He spun round to confront him, holding the bag of shopping in front of his chest and ready to use it as some sort of weapon if needs be. He sure as hell didn’t want to break his jar of peanut butter, but it’d be a pretty awesome way to knock someone out.

“Everything alright?” He asked the man casually, standing still.

The man stopped walking just a few feet ahead of him, but he wasn’t looking at Ronny, he was looking right past him, over his shoulder.

Ronny frowned. He had a bad feeling about this guy, about the whole situation, in fact. A screeching sound behind him caught his attention and he turned to see a car careering round the corner, back door flying open as it slammed to a halt on the road beside them. Run, he silently screamed to himself, his brain kicking into action and telling his legs to get fucking moving. But by this time it was far too late. His stalker from outside the shops was upon him in an instant, shoving him viciously towards the car door as another pair of hands reached out from the darkness and dragged him into the vehicle. The shopping bag dropped from his hand as he was bundled inside by the two men, the door slamming behind them and a damp cloth reeking of chemicals instantly clamped over his mouth and nose.

Ronny fought back, lashing out his arms and legs against his kidnappers, struggling to keep his eyes open so he could get decent views of their two faces, committing mental descriptions to memory, clocking the driver in the front seat too, before his body finally gave in, submitting to the fumes of the chloroform.

 

***

 

John saw the handwritten note on the kitchen table, informing him that Ronny had gone to the shops for milk. And so, he patiently waited for his cup of tea, curling up on the sofa with his laptop and updating his blog and Facebook account. The tea never came. And neither did Ronny. After half an hour, he was bored. After an hour, he was beginning to get worried.

He tried ringing Ronny’s mobile. It went straight through to voicemail. This was strange. And concerning. Forgetting all about his need for tea, the doctor quickly got dressed and headed out to the shops, retracing his fiancee’s steps to see if he could find out where he’d got to or what had been keeping him.

He’d barely walked halfway down the street before he saw a full, unopened jar of peanut butter rolling around in the gutter, and a burst bottle of milk, splashed out all over the pavement, the plastic Tesco bag they were formerly contained inside blowing towards his feet with a sudden gust of wind. He didn’t need some smart arse arrogant consulting detective to tell him what had gone on. Something bad. Something bad had happened to Ronny. He stared up and down the street, desperately searching for clues and despite his best efforts, found himself thinking ‘what would Holmes do?’

He remembered the countless amount of times he’d seen him crawling around on the floor like a complete nutcase, and so dropped to his knees instantly, bowing his head and frowning as he studied the road and pavement. He could see the markings of tyre tracks near the kerb, as if a car had skidded or moved away quickly. He began to slowly put the pieces together in his mind. Ronny had been walking back from the shops. A car had pulled up. And now the shopping was all over the place and Ronny was gone, so…process of elimination said that Ronny had been kidnapped. By whom, remained a mystery, as was the location he had been taken to. The motive wasn’t as hard to ‘deduce’ as John might have thought. During the years he’d spent with Holmes, putting criminals behind bars, breaking up gangs and organisations, they’d made a lot of enemies, and unfortunately, the detective’s enemies had become his enemies too. It was entirely possible one of those enemies would kidnap and potentially harm Ronny just to get to John, just to hurt John.

He felt a burning sensation in his chest, the quiet anger of injustice. This was all Holmes’ fault. Sometimes he wished he’d never met the guy, but then he thought of Ronny, and the distinct possibility that they may never of met either, had he not been living at Baker Street. He couldn’t stand the thought of a life without Ronny Raines. Not now. And especially not after all they’d been through together.

He sat on the edge of the kerb and ran his fingers through his short blond-grey hair, wondering what his next move should be. Holmes. Bastard Holmes. Better and quicker than the police and he knew it. If he tried explaining this to Scotland Yard, they’d want him to leave it a full twenty four hours before filing an official missing person’s report, even with the evidence he’d found, they wouldn’t see that as conclusive, and even if Lestrade believed him, which he might, the silver haired Inspector would complain that he had ‘nothing to go on’, wouldn’t know which leads to follow, where to go, who to ask, how to find him. But Holmes, on the other hand. As much as John hated to admit it, he was good…

 

***

 

An hour later, and he was hovering on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. It was an odd feeling, coming back here, and not a pleasant one. Brought back too many memories. Not all of them bad, of course, but it was the bad ones that tended to linger the most. Before waiting too long, there were footsteps on the stairs, getting closer, an angry sigh and then the door was flung open by an annoyed looking Sherlock Holmes, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

“John…” The detective’s usual deep baritone seemed to have shifted up in pitch, due to the evident surprise at being face to face with his old flatmate again.

“This isn’t a social call,” John announced, wanting to get that in there quickly, before Holmes thought otherwise.

“I’d gathered as much,” Sherlock replied coolly. John didn’t make social calls anymore. Not since he shacked up with that Skull. “What then?”

“It’s about Ronny.”

Sherlock went to close the door without saying another word. John quickly put his foot in the way, wedging it ajar and forcing it back open with both hands.

“I’m not interested,” Sherlock snapped, letting go of the door sufficiently for John to push it open, then standing there petulantly folding his arms.

“He’s been kidnapped,” John ignored his protests and continued explaining. “He went to the shops for some milk and didn’t come back.”

“Excellent,” the detective quipped. “Great news. Best I’ve heard all day.”

John’s store of patience was normally quite high. He could put up with a lot. But right now, with Ronny missing, and with Holmes being an arse, something just snapped inside of him, one of those rare moments where he completely lost it. Without even thinking, his hand formed into a fist, flying into land an impressive punch on the detective’s cheek. He stepped across the threshold of the door and grabbed Holmes by the collar of his dressing gown as he staggered backwards, caught off guard by the blow.

“Listen, you piece of shit,” he snarled, glaring up into those cold blue eyes as he slammed the taller man’s back into the wall. “I know you can help. This is your….thing. This is what you do.”

“Oh, you want me to help now, do you?” Sherlock cooed sarcastically, blinking down at him and trying to ignore the fact that his cheek beginning to throb. John always did have a mean right hook. “John Watson and his pathetic lover boy want the help of the great Sherlock Holmes?” He paused, looking up as if pretending to think about it, then he grabbed both of John’s hands in the vice like grip that was one of his specialities, yanking them away and off of him as he shoved his former flatmate back out onto the street. “The answer’s no.” He closed the door quickly and spun round, leaning up against it.

“You selfish bastard, Holmes!” He could hear John shouting at him from the other side. “No wonder you haven’t got any friends!”

Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a large, slow and measured breath. In the flawless perfection of his mind palace he quickly located the small dark room he reserved for emotions, visualising as he removed the feelings physically from his body, screwed them up into a tight little ball and hurled them in, slamming the door shut and locking it using an eight digit combination only he knew the numbers for. He buried them deep deep within himself, somewhere he could easily suppress and forget them, somewhere they couldn’t escape, somewhere they couldn’t hurt him anymore. When he opened his eyes again they were cold and dead. He was already feeling much better.

This is what he did. This is what he always did, what he always had done and what he always would do. He didn’t have friends. He was better off without them and they were better off without him. If there was one thing he’d learnt from his failed friendship with John, it was that he could make friends, very good ones in fact, but that eventually, somewhere down the line, he would lose them. He would hurt them, drive them away. It might take a couple of days, several months or if he was lucky, a few years, but in the end, they would always leave. It was better this way, to be alone, and after John, he wouldn’t try again. He refused to. There wasn’t any point.

John could feel the rage boiling up inside him, all that anger towards Holmes he normally did so well to suppress. He knew what the man wanted. He wanted him to plead, to beg for his help. God, that would give him so much bloody satisfaction, wouldn’t it, the smarmy arrogant sod. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. No way in hell. If Holmes wasn’t willing to help, he’d just have to do it himself. He lashed out, kicking at the big black door uselessly, before trudging back to the empty flat feeling pissed off and depressed.

 

***

 

Collapsing down onto the bed, he curled up into a ball, hugging Ronny’s pillow. It still smelled of him. He fought back tears, clenching his hands into fists. Crying wouldn’t do any good. That wouldn’t help. ‘Caring about them won’t help save them’. He always remembered Holmes saying that to him once, or something like that. It was true though. Right now, he was just lying there being useless. That wasn’t going to get his Pooky back. He had to do something. He needed action. Sitting up, he grabbed the phone and tried Ronny’s mobile again. It was still going straight through to voicemail.

Next he rang Molly, for the third time that day, only to hear the same old news, she hadn’t heard from him or the kidnappers and was equally as worried. She suggested asking Sherlock. He hung up.

 

***

 

“I’m making pasta,” Tim announced, Sherlock’s annoyingly happy new flatmate. It wouldn’t last long. He’d make sure of it. Tim wasn’t right for him. Far too joyous.

“Wonderful,” he muttered sarcastically, a form of humour that was, almost certainly, lost on the young man.

“It’s really good, my pasta,” he continued, infuriating the detective even further. “My ex-girlfriend told me.”

“Did your ex-girlfriend tell you you talk too much?” He snapped, shoving past him through the kitchen and heading straight to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Despite his memory wiping technique, Sherlock was particularly perturbed to discover John and his little problem was still plaguing his mind. It wasn’t out of any sympathy towards his zombified boyfriend. He couldn’t care less about “Ronny” or whatever he claimed his name was. If he was to do anything, to help out in anyway on this case, it would be for John and John only, because despite all that had happened between them, all their differences, the petty arguments and the more serious physical scuffles, and despite the fact that John had become angry and bitter towards him, blamed him for his boyfriend’s original death and seriously pissed him off sometimes, Sherlock could never hate him. As difficult as he found it to admit, he knew he would always have a soft spot for John, because John was his first friend, and even now, he would still do anything for him. Cursing his emotional weakness, the detective put a pillow over his head and rolled onto one side, trying to put it off for as long as possible, not wanting to give in too easily. He should make John sweat for a while, so that he really appreciated his help when he finally decided to offer it, which of course he would.

He couldn’t help it.

The potential for danger and excitement already had his interest, the thought of a possible rescue attempt, a new case.

He knew John and Ronny’s address. Molly had given it to him a while ago, even though John had asked her not to. Sherlock realised she felt sorry for him, which was quite sweet of her, but entirely unnecessary. Now though, he was thankful of her innocent kind heartedness as he jumped up from the bed and got ready to go out.

 

***

 

“TAXI!” Sherlock shouted enthusiastically, throwing his arm up into the air as his long coat billowed out behind him, annoyed that the one he had told to wait had decided to drive on without them. John silently followed, pulling the door of his and Ronny’s flat to a close behind him, before shoving his hands stiffly in the pockets of his jeans. He was pissed off at Molly for having given Holmes their address, and had mixed feelings about this whole scene. He was obviously pleased they were actually doing something to help Ronny, actually making progress, but being here, like this, with Holmes. He felt quite uncomfortable. He thought he’d left all this behind, for good, was happy to settle down with Ronny, have a steady job at the hospital, get married. He was too old to be chasing round after the boy genius. Too old and too tired. Holmes never seemed to slow down. He’d probably die out on a case. That was probably what he wanted.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was enjoying every second, flinging open the door of the cab as it stopped and leaping inside, playing with the collar of his coat and tugging it up to his ears. John caught him doing it and quietly rolled his eyes, calmly getting into the back of the taxi and closing the door, making sure to stay well away from the detective on the other side of the seat.

“Just like the old days, eh, John?” He grinned. “The game is on. You and I back out on a case together. One last case for old time’s sake. Sentiment and all that.”

“This isn’t a game, Holmes,” John spat, glaring at him a second as he did up his belt. “And it isn’t one of your cases. Ronny’s life could be in danger. Now I know you don’t give a shit about that, but just for once, could you just…try not to look so…fucking happy?”

Sherlock bit his lip and stared at his feet, noticing a small mark on his left shoe he’d obviously missed whilst polishing them earlier. The taxi driver waited patiently whilst his two passengers bickered amongst themselves, neither of them having yet told him where they were supposed to be going.

“Where was it?” Sherlock asked stiffly, keeping this strictly business.

“Just on the corner. Literally one minute away.” John pointed further up the street and the driver tentatively set off, unsure what he was supposed to be doing.

“Here! Just here,” John cried once they’d reached the spot, a mere few seconds drive away in the taxi.

“Wait for us,” Sherlock instructed the driver sharply, jumping out of the cab and running round to the other side as John got out too, pointing out the tyre marks at the edge of the kerb, and the abandoned shopping that was still lying undisturbed.

“And you haven’t touched anything?”

“Nope.” John shook his head wearily. Of course he hadn’t touched anything. He’d worked enough cases with the detective to know that.

Sherlock got down on his hands and knees, snapping out his magnifier and peering through at the tyre marks. John watched with his hands on his hips, just wanting to get this over with.

“It was a Mercedes coupe,” the curly haired detective announced as he stood up straight. “97 model, probably an N-reg. Dark blue. Been in the countryside recently, probably quite dirty, not very well looked after.”

He looked up and down the street.

“Left in…that direction, judging by the direction of the tyres. Came from…” He spun round and pointed the opposite way. “That direction.” He ran to the other corner of the street and threw himself down on the floor rather overdramatically for John’s liking.

John stood where he was, waiting by the cab until Sherlock came back looking rather pleased with himself less than a minute later.

“The car waited round that corner for at least eight minutes, most likely more. And the driver smoked Gitanes. A French brand quite difficult to get hold of in this country except from special tobacconists. There were three people involved in this job. One driving, one in the back, and one following Ronny as he came out of the shop, giving a signal to his accomplices when it was an appropriate time to come and grab him. ” He grinned and looked at John expectantly.

“Right,” John pursed his lips. “So. What next?”

Sherlock’s eyebrow gave a small twinge, his lips downturning slightly.

“Don’t you want to know how I did it?”

“Nope.”

John opened the cab door again and started to get back inside. Sherlock blocked the way.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

Sherlock couldn’t understand it. He was so used to John asking about his methods, then exclaiming they were brilliant or fantastic, and although it had been nearly a year since they’d worked a case together, he still expected to get the same reactions from his deductions.

“It was the cigarettes that – ”

“Holmes! I don’t care. Alright? I’m not interested.” John sighed angrily, shoving past him to get inside the cab. It wasn’t exactly true. John did want to know. He was frequently amazed at how Holmes could see so much in so little. He’d never been able to do the same, never been able to get his head around the methods, and yes, he was interested, but he wasn’t about to give Holmes the satisfaction of having him ask and then fawn over the explanation. He wasn’t going to do that anymore. He’d moved on.

“221B Baker Street, please,” Sherlock directed the driver, clambering in and closing the door, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Why do you call me Holmes?” He asked quietly, turning to look at him.

“That’s your name,” John replied, staring out of the window and refusing to turn, even though he could feel the detective’s eyes on him, trying to read him, urging him to look. He wouldn’t give in. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s my surname.”

“Therefore part of your name.”

“You used to call me Sherlock.”

“That was when we were friends,” John answered coolly, still refusing to look at him. The remark stung, and Sherlock clenched his fists for a moment, forcing back any emotions that might show on his face.

“You admit we were friends then? I sometimes feel you’re – ”

“You feel?” John interrupted sarcastically. “Bloody hell, Holmes. Are you sure you’re OK? Don’t need me to call an ambulance?”

“Very droll. I’ll just start calling you Watson then, shall I?”

“It really wouldn’t bother me,” John shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s what they called me in the army so…”

Sherlock sighed, clasping his hands in his lap and studying the back of the cabbie’s head. He sometimes wondered whether he should apologise to John, whether that might help, but then, he wouldn’t actually be certain what he’d be apologising for, and he didn’t believe in apologies for apologies sake. There was no point saying ‘I’m sorry’ unless you were genuinely sorry. He remembered their first argument after John had got with Ronny, with John illogicially blaming him for his new boyfriend’s apparent death. ‘If you’d have helped him when he asked, instead of turning him away, he might never have got shot in the first place.’ ‘Might’ was the operative word there, as far as Sherlock was concerned.

“I’m not coming in,” John mumbled eventually, once they pulled up outside 221B.

“You might as well,” Sherlock sighed. “It could take a while.”

“I hope it’s not going to take too long,” John snorted. “Otherwise I would have just gone to the police.”

“You know exactly why you came to me,” Holmes replied in that self-assurred tone of voice that so infuriated the doctor, before sauntering off to the front door without paying for the cab. Some things never changed, John thought as he grumbled under his breath and got his wallet out.

 

***

 

Ronny groaned. He felt like he had the biggest hangover ever, which was fucking annoying, because he knew he hadn’t been drinking. It was like getting the pain without the pleasure. What was the fucking point in that? He fluttered his eyes open and squinted around him. He was in some kind of room, that much was obvious immediately. And a dark room at that. Only one window as far as he could see, a dusty, dirty one in the top left corner of the wall opposite. He felt like he was in a garage in someone’s back yard, to be quite honest. The whole place was black and dingy, smelt of mould. He coughed and tried to move. That was when he realised he was tied to a chair, bound by ropes around his waist and legs, his hands behind his back. His mouth too, was strapped tightly with some kind of fabric gag. He gave a few muffled cries, as loudly as he could, struggling against the restraints, rocking the chair back and forth.

Eventually, a door opened on the right hand side of the room. Light from outside shone in as a sillhouted figure strode purposely into Ronny’s temporary prison.

“Shut the hell up!” The man snapped, speaking in some kind of weird accent. It definitely wasn’t Brit. French perhaps.

‘Make me,’ Ronny felt like saying. Instead, he continued making noises and lashing about as much as possible, causing the man to walk over and backslap him across the face. His cheek stung with the blow. He looked up into his captor’s eyes. He didn’t recognise him as being one of his kidnappers, but then, he could have been the driver. He never actually got to see that dude’s face before he passed out.

“Your friends will be here soon,” the man spoke again, using that odd accent. “To rescue you.”

‘What friends?’ Ronny thought. He didn’t really have any friends. Except for John, obviously. And Molly. She was his only other friend and he really hoped neither of them were about to come to this goddamn place. He’d rather find his own way out than put them in any danger attempting to elicit some kind of rescue attempt.

He watched as the Frenchman, as he was now almost certain that’s what he was, picked up what looked like a can of gasoline, and began glugging it out all over the place, walking all round the edges of the room. Ronny felt the adrenalin begin to surge through his body, realising how much danger he was actually fucking in right now. For a second he thought the whole place was going to go up in fucking flames, but the dude just laughed and tossed the can onto the floor, exiting the way he came in and shutting the door behind him, leaving Ronny sat in the semi-darkness once again, wondering what the hell was going to happen.

Moments later, he was back, along with his two friends, and Ronny did recognise them. They were the guys who’d done the actual kidnapping. One of them was carrying a ladder, which he set up in the corner, clambering up to the top and fiddling with a camera Ronny hadn’t even noticed was there until now. The other two started bringing in these fucking bundles of hay and straw, dumping them at random points round the room, then more gasoline was thrown around everywhere. Ronny began rocking and struggling in his seat, his hands and ankles chafing as they fought against the ropes. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t fucking good at all.

 

***

 

Sherlock had a pile of files out on the desk and was frantically searching through them like a madman, muttering rather incoherently. John watched him silently, gripping the arms of his old favourite chair, feeling tense and uncomfortable being back in the flat. He looked over at the mantelpiece and couldn’t help noticing he’d got himself a replacement skull. The idea pissed him off. The guy really didn’t give a shit.

“That’s Tim’s chair now,” Sherlock announced, dropping a bunch of papers onto the floor and turning to a new pile, scanning through them page by page.

“He your new flatmate?”

“Mhmm.”

“What’s he like?”

“Complete idiot. Hate him.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. He won’t be here long then.”

“No. I think another head in the fridge should clear him off for good.”

John frowned and stared at the floor, thinking about Ronny again. Suddenly Sherlock made him jump, with an exuberant cry of, “Yes!”

“This is it,” he continued, coming over holding one of his old case files. “Michel Dupont.”

“French?”

Sherlock nodded and leap frogged into the leather armchair, tucking his knees up to his chin.

“So…he’s the driver of the car? The one who smoked the uh…funny cigarettes.”

“Excellent, John,” Sherlock smiled, seeming quite pleased. “I see my tuition wasn’t entirely lost on you.”

“Don’t patronise me, Holmes,” John snapped. “I’m not your pupil. I never was.”

“Fine. Recognise the name…Watson?” He spat out his former friend’s surname, making a point.

“Michel Dupont? No. Should I?”

“Well, yes, you should. You shot him.” Sherlock reached over and handed him the case file.

“Hm. Memory tends to get a bit blurry, the amount of times I saved your life,” John sighed as though incredibly bored, exaggerating the action as he opened up the file and looked at the picture of the Frenchman. “I think I do recognise him actually.”

“According to the file we put him away for two years,” Sherlock leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Which probably means he got out recently. Obviously not forgotten you…Watson.”

“Why has he taken Ronny? Why not just take me?”

“He hasn’t sent you any ransom demands, so this isn’t a standard kidnapping,” the detective spoke quickly, getting to his feet and reaching for his coat and scarf. “He knows you’ll come to me for help, which means he wants us to find him. Chances are he has something planned for us both when we arrive. Some kind of trap or ambush. We need to be prepared.”

“Fine. No problem.” John slapped the file down on the coffee table and stood up, instantly ready to go. “Where, exactly?” He hated being one step behind Holmes all the time. He knew that he knew where they were going, or at least, had a pretty good idea. He also knew that the guy liked to keep things a secret to the last minute, just so he could make himself appear cleverer and more brilliant than everyone else. It annoyed him, really. It just reminded him of all the things he didn’t like about the detective, all those things he’d grown tired of over the years. There was no actual reason to keep people in the dark, as far as he could see. Holmes was just an arse.

As expected, the mop of curly hair remained silent, scooping up the front door keys and hurtling down the stairs like a hurricane. John merely sighed and trudged after him, just holding onto the fact that they would have Ronny back soon. He trusted Holmes to be good at his job at least.

They caught another taxi, and Holmes gave the address. Somewhere in Whitehall, John overheard. The only reason he could think of to go there would be to see Mycroft.

He was quite pleased when, fifteen minutes later, his ‘deductions’ were proved to be correct and they found themselves sat inside Mycroft’s office staring at a large computer screen as the elder Holmes brought up various displays of CCTV footage, tapping into the cameras all over the city.

“A dark blue Mercedes,” Sherlock murmured, hovering over his brother’s shoulder somewhat anxiously.

“Yes, yes, I heard you the first time, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed impatiently.

John twiddled his thumbs, sat in a high backed swivel chair and twisting it left then right in small semi-circles, staying out of it.

Mycroft continued to bring up different clippings and smaller displays up onto the screen, scrolling and scanning through them, both men’s eyes darting back and forward like hawks searching for their prey.

“Here!” Sherlock suddenly cried, pointing exultantly at one of the displays. Mycroft hit pause, then zoomed in bit by bit, the car getting bigger on the screen until the registration plate was clear enough to read. Sherlock grabbed a pen and scribbled it down.

“Trace that car through town, Mycroft,” he instructed, taking out his phone. “I need to know where it’s going.”

“Mhmm…” Mycroft murmured his agreement and set to work whilst Sherlock walked away, the phone pressed to his ear. Feeling like they were hot on the heels of their suspects, the excited detective rang through to Lestrade and gave him the registration plate, asking him to check out who the owner was, his heart thumping pleasantly with the enjoyment of the game.

Two minutes later, the Inspector came back with an answer, and Sherlock hung up, spinning round and, despite being warned to try and not look so happy, approached his former flatmate with a rather large grin on his face.

“The vehicle’s registered to a Mrs Katherine Dupont. That’s his wife.”

“Right,” John sighed stiffly. “So you were correct about this Dupont guy. Great job, Holmes. Still doesn’t tell us where they’re keeping Ronny.”

“Already way ahead of you, Watson,” the detective smirked.

Mycroft turned and glanced over his shoulder, giving them an odd look. “Since when did you two start calling each other by surnames?”

“It’s what they do in the army, brother,” Sherlock came in quickly before John could hope to answer. “Thought you would have known that. Now tell me, is the car heading South?” He locked eyes with John. The doctor shrugged and said nothing. He wasn’t here to play odd mind games with Holmes. He just wanted Ronny back.

“Yes,” his brother informed him. “They crossed at Waterloo Bridge.”

“Just as I thought,” Sherlock gave a low chuckle and clasped his hands together. “Oh, this is going to be fun!” He quickly turned and darted towards the door with a swish of his coat.

“Holmes!” John snapped impatiently, getting out of his swivelly chair and following. He ran to catch up with the tall strides of the detective, grabbing onto his arm and spinning him round, forcing him to stop. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on. Now. Where are we going?”

“To where it started, John,” Sherlock explained excitedly. “There’s a small storage shed in Battersea. Rarely used. That’s where you shot Dupont. That’s where he’ll be right now, and that’s where you’ll find your precious zombie boyfriend.”

John shoved him away, his fists clenching.

“I could very easily give you another bruise to match that first one, Holmes,” the ex-army man threatened, his voice a deep growl that warned he meant business.

Sherlock took a small step away, backing down, no desire to get a second powerful thump in the face. He knew he shouldn’t have said it, but sometimes his mouth was quicker than his brain. He couldn’t help it.

“I was joking,” he mumbled. “Come on. Let’s get Ronny back. You still have a gun, right? Tell me you still have a gun.”

“Yes,” John muttered. “And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my fiancee.”

 

***

 

It was almost another hour by the time they were pulling up at the docker’s yard on the banks of the Thames near Battersea. The chain was off the gate and in a heap on the floor, a clear indication that someone had been there.

“Anywhere here is fine,” Sherlock said to the driver as he slowed to a halt. He handed him a crisp ten pound note and jumped out, John eagerly following, feeling the tension and excitement rising now he knew they were close to Ronny.

As the taxi rolled off into the distance and back towards the main road, he tugged out the gun from the waistband of his jeans and gripped it loosely, looking around the area as they approached the small run down old building from the back.

Sherlock strode on ahead, round to the front, where he proudly pointed at the dark blue Mercedes they had been tracing on Mycroft’s CCTV cameras.

“See? He’s here, and he’s expecting us. He’s made that glaringly obvious by leaving his car right here in the open.”

“Excellent. Let’s go in,” John said flatly, heading towards the door.

“John!” Sherlock called after him, standing exactly where he was and watching as the doctor paused with his fingers clasped on the handle, ready to go inside.

“You do realise this is a trap, don’t you?”

“Yes,” John nodded, speaking with utter calmness and quiet determination. “And Ronny’s the bait. Now let’s go. I promised him I’d make one of my special risottos tonight.”

Sherlock felt a small twinge of jealousy. He missed John’s risottos.

The door creaked open and he followed his old friend into the dreary darkness of the storage facility.

 

***

 

Ronny looked up as the light streamed in, saw the silhouette of the man he loved more than anything in the world and the tall gangly figure of Curls hovering behind him. Of course…John had gone to Sherlock. He knew how much it would have annoyed him to ask the detective for help, but somehow that made the act even more touching. That was how much Boo cared about getting him back safely and quickly.

His stomach turned over. He felt sick. He knew what was coming. What those three maniacs had planned. He shouted against the gag, thrashing about, shaking his head from side to side, pleading them not to come any further into the room.

Sherlock’s eyes darted around, scanning every inch of their new surroundings. He spotted the camera neatly disguised in the corner; the stacks of hey; the stench of petrol filling his nostrils; the stretch of black linoleum just in front of their feet, apparently leading some kind of trail to where Ronny was being held tied to a chair in the centre of the room; and although it was dark, he was sure he could see a long red wire sticking out from one side, leading towards a small box resting against the right hand wall. He saw it all in a split second, just as Ronny began moving wildly in his seat, obviously attempting to warn them of impending danger.

“John, no!” He reached out and grabbed the man’s arm.

“Get off me, Holmes!” John snapped, shrugging him away as he started walking, his attention firmly fixed on getting to Ronny.

The explosion happened almost instantly, a loud bang and a flash like lightning. It wasn’t a very big device, but then, it wasn’t designed to kill them, only to ignite the fire. And that’s exactly what it did. Within seconds, Sherlock found himself separated from John and the ex-skull by a thick wall of flames, flickering higher as they rapidly spread around the room.

In the immediate aftermath of the explosion, John lowered his head and shielded his eyes, an instinctive reaction from back in his army days. He’d seen many a soldier blinded from flying shrapnel. It was only a split second, then he stood up straight again, focused entirely on Ronny. The heat of the fire and the sudden seriousness of the situation failed to bother him. He dropped to his knees in front of his fiancee and began to untie him calmly, rope by rope, finally undoing the gag that was clamped into his mouth.

“John, for fuck’s sake!” were the first words that came out of the American’s mouth. “I was trying to fucking warn you!”

“Shh.” John placed a finger against Ronny’s lips, standing up and offering him his hands. Ronny rubbed his sore wrists and got to his feet, the pair of them looking round and quickly assessing the mess they were in – surrounded by flames licking ever closer, thick black smoke starting to billow and choke their lungs.

Sherlock, stood safely near the door, observed the proceedings feeling rather helpless and redundant, watching the two lovebirds clinging onto each other, coughing and spluttering.

“This. Is. Ridiculous,” the detective muttered under his breath. Sighing slightly, he whipped off his scarf and tied it round his nose and mouth. Next, off came the coat, which he flung around himself like a cloak. He had no idea whether the material was flammable or not. He’d never thought of testing it before. Now he wished he had, but there wasn’t any time for that. He had to act immediately, before his former friend and former skull were consumed by the flames, before he lost them for good.

Using the coat as a shield, he hoisted it up over his head and ran through the fire, feeling the heat surging through his body and swallowing down his fear. He’d be fine. He wasn’t burning.

Within seconds he was through to the other side and had reached John and Ronny.

“Here, get under.” He threw one edge of the coat up towards them. Ronny grabbed it and, put John in the middle, dragged it up over their heads.Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s shoulder. He didn’t give a damn right now about personal space or fallings out, they just needed to keep as close as they could so they all had shelter under the coat. Ronny lifted his arm up and hooked it over John’s other shoulder, finding Sherlock’s arm and grabbing hold of it tightly, the two taller men sheltering and protecting the shorter. John was the most important one out of all of them, at least he and Curls were in agreement on that point, Ronny thought to himself as he leaned forward and caught the detective’s eye, nodding that they were ready to go.

“Run!” Sherlock shouted, the three of them racing towards the open door, dashing through the flames and collapsing out into the sunlight, coughing and gasping for fresh air as they emerged from under the coat. Apart from a few singes and blackened marks, it was still in fairly could condition, and Sherlock was impressed with its sturdiness, as he threw it back on over his shoulders and retied his scarf.

“Well…” He grinned, feeling very pleased with himself.

“Well indeed,” John gave a small chuckle, the adrenalin getting to his head, making him act a bit silly.

“I love you, baby boy,” Ronny sighed in relief, pulling John towards him and planting a sloppy kiss on his forehead.

“I’m fine,” John insisted. “What about you? Did they hurt you?”

Sherlock turned his head away, trying to be polite and ‘give them space’ as they fussed over each other, then led the way silently towards the main road, where they’d be able to find a taxi.

 

***

 

Ronny, of course, wanted to know all about who the hell had kidnapped him and what it was all about, and during the short cab right back towards Chelsea, Sherlock was only too happy to explain, taking the moment to go into detail over his deductions, something he’d been unable to see earlier.

“It was the cigarettes that did it, you see. I recognised the brand and remembered that Dupont had smoked them. From there it was easy.”

“But how did you know he was the driver?” John couldn’t help asking.

“Because of their placement on the kerb. They’d fallen very close to the corner. If he’d been smoking in the back seat, they would have been further back.”

“The car could have just been facing the other way or something,” argued Ronny, never one to pass up on being devil’s advocate when he had the chance.

“Could have been,” Sherlock shrugged. “Unlikely though. They would have had to turn around in order to come driving round the corner and grab you. Seems like a bit of a hassle. As soon as I was sure it was Dupont, I knew where we’d find him.”

“What was with the cameras?” Ronny frowned. “What was the point in setting them up if they were just gonna burn the place to the ground?”

“So they could sit somewhere far away, out of our reach, and watch the proceedings unfold on a television screen,” Sherlock explained casually. “Watch us all either burn to death or escape. And yes, I’ve no doubt they saw our heroic escape before the flames got so high as to destroy the camera.”

“Which means it won’t be the last we hear from him,” John mumbled, picking some dirt out from under his fingernails.

“D’you want to come in for a bit, Curls?” Ronny looked at him as they arrived in Gloucester Street.

Sherlock was hesitant. He glanced at John, who rolled his shoulders, his face impassive and expressionless as he spoke. “You got Ronny back for me. And did a pretty good job saving our lives with that ridiculous coat of yours. I see no reason why you can’t come in for a quick cuppa.”

 

***

 

“You never thought about settling down, Curls?” Ronny grinned, passing Sherlock a fresh mug of steaming hot tea. “Finding yourself a nice girl…or boy, even?”

“Um. No.” Sherlock frowned at him. “Why would I?”

“It’s sort of a normal human thing to do, Holmes,” John sighed, cradling his cup and blowing at it slightly to cool it down. “But then, you never have been normal. Have you?”

“Or human?”

“Hm. I didn’t say that, did I? You said that.”

They looked at each other for a brief moment, Sherlock breaking the eye contact first. Ronny picked up on some kind of atmosphere between the two. He wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but he didn’t like it all that much either. He quickly tried to continue with the previous conversation.

“Like Molly, for instance.”

“Molly?!” Sherlock turned, pulling a face.

“Yeah,” Ronny continued. “You know she’s always fancied you, right?”

“Um yes…that hadn’t escaped my attention,” the detective muttered.

“Yeah, he uses it to take advantage of her,” John scoffed. “Manipulate her into getting what he wants.”

“That’s not true,” Sherlock protested, overly defensive because he knew it was in fact, rather true. “I…I do care about her.”

There was a moment of silence round the table. Sherlock had expected some kind of rebuttal from John, another sarcastic remark or a put down from Ronny. He knew that being invited in for tea wasn’t a sign that they were in any way friends again. John was just being polite. That was the type of man he was. Which was why he was quite surprised by his answer.

“I know you care about her,” he said quietly, scratching at a stain on the table and focusing all his attention on that instead of looking at Holmes or Ronny. He felt quite self conscious all of a sudden, like he was making an important decision here, and the conflicting emotions were confusing him. On the one hand, he was still annoyed at Holmes over everything that had gone on. There were words that had been said between them he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive. But then, on the other hand, he had just saved their lives. He knew Sherlock had only come on board because he got excited at the prospect of a new case, of danger, and that running into fires to save his ‘clients’ was probably all part of the deal, but still, the man did have his moments. On occasion. And it hadn’t escaped his attention that Sherlock had a soft spot for Molly. He teased her, took advantage of her, yes, but he also trusted her and counted her as one of his friends – an honour for anyone in Holmes’ world.

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, hopeful that perhaps he and John were making some kind of progress. He knew it was unlikely they would ever be close. For a start off, he and Ronny were never going to see eye to eye, were never going to get on and be “pals”, so there would always be some kind of boundary or barrier between him and John. But even if they just said hello to each other now and then, the odd text message or e-mail, that would be better than nothing, better than feeling like John hated him most of the time.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure of how to respond to John’s comment. He had perhaps been more observant than he often gave him credit for.

“This tea is very nice,” he said stiffly, looking at Ronny and attempting to compliment him. The words sounded odd and false on his lips and that obviously came across to the other two, John giving him a curious frown, and Ronny bursting into laughter.

“Why thank you, McCurls,” he chuckled, taking a sip of his own. Sherlock really was a weird guy. It was like he was from a different planet most of the time.

“I’d better be going though,” Sherlock continued, getting to his feet. “My annoying flatmate is making pasta tonight and I need to be there early to make sure there’s a head in the fridge when he opens it to take out the ingredients.”

“You really are trying to get rid of him, aren’t you?” John laughed slightly, feeling more relaxed now their adventure was over.

“Most definitely. I’d honestly prefer to be on my own but…I need someone to share with the rent. Someone who won’t freak out over my experiments or my job.”

“Molly,” Ronny suggested.

“Molly?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Think about it, Curls. She works in a morgue. She’s used to seeing dead bodies and parts and weird shit. She knows you already. She knows all about your experiments. She actively likes you. Now, that’s gotta be pretty hard to come by, right?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the American. “Are you just trying to set me up with her?”

“No,” Ronny laughed. “But maybe it’d shut her up talking about you all the fucking time.”

“She talks about me?”

“All the fucking time.”

Sherlock felt a little flutter in his stomach, an odd sensation he couldn’t really describe or explain. He shrugged off Ronny’s idea. “She’s already got a flat.”

“Actually, she was just saying to me last night that she wants to look for somewhere else.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, slightly annoyed that his tone of voice sounded almost hopeful.

“Yup. She even said she might like to share with someone, but she’d never been able to find someone she got on with and who didn’t mind her having a cat.”

“That rules Holmes out,” John interrupted with a laugh. “He hates cats.”

“No, I don’t!” Sherlock cried indignantly. “In fact, I…um…I actively like them.” This was, of course, a complete and utter lie, and John knew it better than anyone. Sherlock hated cats. He didn’t even know why he was attempting to twist the truth in such a manner, the only explanation being that he was keen to have Molly as a flatshare. He was, certainly, beginning to consider the possibility.

“Well, there you go then,” said Ronny. “Sounds like you could have yourself a new flatmate.”

“And a new date,” John chimed in.

“I am not dating her!”

“Aww, go on, Sherlock,” teased John. “Why not? She’s sweet.”

But Sherlock was no longer listening to their taunts or relationship advice. He was standing completely still and staring at John with the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You…you just called me Sherlock.”

John seemed almost as surprised as the detective, tilting his head slightly, his eyes rolling to one corner as if trying to remember what he’d just said.

“I guess…I guess I did. Yes,” he agreed.

“Well. Um. Thank you. Er…John.” He held out his hand.

John took it. “Sherlock,” he nodded. A tentative shake.

“Er…Ronny,” the detective looked slightly embarrassed as he now turned to the American once again.

“Mm?” Ronny had been rather distracted watching the apparent rekindling of his fiancee’s friendship with Curls. Things were certainly looking a little bit better on that front, if the handshake was anything to go by. He really wasn’t sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, if John was happy, he was happy. On the other hand, he was cautious of Sherlock and didn’t want John getting to close, for fear of him getting hurt if they had some kind of major falling out again. Then there was the fact that he had always been rather jealous of John and Sherlock’s “bromance-style” friendship. John was his now and he felt quite possessive over him, whether that was right or wrong.

“I was wondering,” Sherlock was continuing to speak, awkwardly. Ronny found it incredible how he could reel off these super fast deductions when he was working a case, then clammed up whenever he had to have a normal conversation. “About the uhh…Molly thing.”

“Yeah? Spit it out, Curls.”

“Well…you seem to be…quite close to her, so um…maybe you could…you know.”

Ronny gave him a blank look and shook his head. “Er no. I don’t know. You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than that.”

“He wants to know if you can ask her for him,” John supplied the missing information. He knew Sherlock too well, knew all his little quirks and insecurities. He would be incapable of asking her himself. He’d just never get round to it.

“What? Really?” Ronny snorted. “Too shy to do it yourself?”

“No,” Sherlock began, his cheeks flushing and heating up. “It’s not that, it’s – ”

“Oh my God, he’s blushing!” laughed Ronny. “He’s fucking blushing. You fancy her don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” answered Sherlock, his pale cheekbones reddening even further at the accusation.

John and Ronny both looked at each other and started giggling, causing Sherlock to shove his hands into the pockets of his coat, glaring at them looking both pissed off and embarrassed at the same time.

“Alright, alright,” Ronny put his hand up as if in surrender, trying to calm himself down from his and John’s mini laughing fit. “I’ll talk to her about it.”

Sherlock nodded and lowered his eyes to the floor for a moment. “Thank you. Goodbye then.”

“Bye Sherlock,” John gave him a small wave as he headed to the door.

“Bye Curls!”

As soon as John heard the clicking of the front door closing, he stood up and made his way over towards Ronny, wrapping his arms around his neck and dragging him down for a small tender kiss, looking up into his eyes.

“I’m glad I got you back, kitten,” he whispered.

“I’m fucking glad too,” Ronny grinned.

“I missed you.”

“I know. So did I.” Ronny pressed his lips to John’s forehead, reaching his right hand down and running it gently up and down his back.

“I think we should go to the bedroom,” John suggested matter of factly.

“Really?” Ronny’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. It was normally him that was pestering John for attention, his high sex drive often getting the better of him. To get it the other way round was a rarity, and a delight.

“Yes, yes,” John nodded, then pushed his shoulders back and stood up tall. “In fact, that’s an order.”

Ronny felt his cock twitching in his pants. He fucking loved it when John took control.

“Yes, Captain!” He barked back, wondering how far John would take it. He was so used to being on top, he really got fucking excited on the odd occasion it happened the other way around. He stood to attention, did a mock salute, then attempted to run towards the bedroom, stumbling over his own clumsy feet and barely managing to keep himself off the floor.

“Careful,” John chuckled, following closely behind him and shutting the door of their downstairs room. He undid the buttons of his shirt, watching with an amused smile as Ronny desperately undressed himself, obviously very keen. He was sweet when he was like this.

Within minutes they were both naked and clambering onto the bed together. John mounted on top of him, a leg on either side as they rocked their hips against each other, erections clashing tantalisingly.

“John…” Ronny gripped lightly onto his waist and gave a quiet gasp that sent a tingle down John’s spine. “Are you going to…” He faded off, not wanting to say it directly. He knew John didn’t like it when he was too overtly rude.

“Do you want me to?” John replied, knowing what was being asked of him.

Ronny nodded, his tongue unconsciously darting out to run across his dry lips. John smiled, leaning down to kiss him, just the once, before promptly rolling off and to the side. Ronny turned with him, sitting up and resting on his elbow to watch his handsome Boo curiously.

“Do you remember how to?” he teased.

John said nothing, opening up the top drawer of the bedside cabinet and taking out a small tub of lube.

“Where do you want me?” Ronny asked, his heart racing with anticipation.

“On your hands and knees,” John ordered sharply, causing another surge in Ronny’s erection. Just that tone of voice. God, it fucking did things to him. He jumped up off his back and quickly clambered round to face the other way, resting on his knees and elbows, his face buried into the duvet and his ass sticking out in the air towards John.

“I’m ready for you, baby,” he grinned, his voice muffled by the bed.

John felt his heart give a flutter at the sight of Ronny so exposed in front of him, so beautiful and incredible and entirely his. He twisted the cap on the jar and dipped the fingers of his left hand inside, coating them with the soft gel before setting the tub down on the side. Then he reached his hand down and ran a finger gently between the cheeks of Ronny’s arse, feeling the American jump at the touch.

“Cold,” he mumbled.

“Shh…” John soothed him softly, sitting up on his knees then leaning over to place small wet kisses on Ronny’s lower back as he eased a single finger inside him.

“Mmph…” Ronny tensed and took a deep breath.

“Relax, little one,” purred John, beginning to waggle his finger back and forth, twisting it round in circles, pushing and stretching at the oh so tight muscles before eventually sliding up a second. Ronny whined and attempted to lift his hips up into John’s hand, enjoying every moment as the doctor expertly crooked his two fingers to find Ronny’s prostate.

“Mmm…I forgot how good you were at this.”

“See? I do remember how,” John murmured, more roughly thrusting up a third to loosen him up completely, feeling the inside of Ronny’s pretty arse become slick and smooth and open.

Then, without warning, he quickly pulled back and out of him completely, causing Ronny to give a yelp of displeasure and frustration at the sudden loss of contact. John watched his fiancee’s twitching, gaping hole with a pleased and slightly satisfied smile, then Ronny rolled onto his back, staring up at him with a pout.

“Please Boo,” he said quietly, stretching up his long arms and wrapping them round John’s neck, dragging him down for a kiss and raising his hips upwards. John gave a small moan into Ronny’s mouth, grabbing him by the thighs, spreading them apart and thrusting his cock deep inside with one quick snap of his hips, filling him up completely.

“Fuck!” Ronny gasped and broke the kiss, focusing his lips on John’s neck, biting and sucking up the skin.

John closed his eyes, his head dizzy and reeling. “You really are bloody tight, Ronny,” he muttered, taking a moment to get used to it all. He rocked back and forth gently, listening intently to the adjustments in Ronny’s breathing, the tensing of his muscles, the way their bodies felt locked against each other. He’d never had a lover like Ronny before. He adored every single thing about him.

He began to gradually increase the pace, biting his lip to keep himself quiet. Ronny ran his fingers up and down John’s spine, the pleasure starting to surge through him.

“More,” he mumbled, lifting up his legs and hooking them around John’s back so he could get even deeper. John responded with a grunt, taking the request on board and slamming back and forth, quicker and harder, trying to make sure he hit Ronny in that sweet spot every time.

“Fuck…fuck…” The American repeatedly cursed, clinging onto John now and thinking he couldn’t last much longer. He really wasn’t used to having his prostate manipulated like this, it was fucking driving him out of his mind.

John let go of Ronny’s thigh and moved his right hand down to clasp around his erection, pumping it quickly in time to his own thrusts.

Ronny’s eyes widened, his vision whitening out as he was instantly toppled over the edge. That extra touch was all he needed. His body jolted, his lips emitted a strangulated half cry of John’s name and his hips bucked upwards, filling John’s hand and covering both their stomachs with his warm release.

“Ronny…” John gasped breathlessly, continuing to pound into him just that little bit longer, watching whilst he came, holding off as long as he could before allowing himself to fall headlong into sweet oblivion, collapsing forwards onto Ronny’s chest, panting heavily, sweat glistening the back of his neck.

In the aftermath of their ecstasy, Ronny stroked John’s shoulder, the tips of his fingers absent mindedly running across his scar. He loved every mark and blemish and scratch on John’s body. He was utterly gorgeous and perfect, no matter what he sometimes thought about himself.

“I love you, baby boy,” he whispered, speaking some of his thoughts aloud.

“I love you too, you little shit,” John replied with a small smile, sitting up again and gradually pulling back, easing himself out of Ronny gently so as not to hurt him. He still winced ever so slightly, feeling super sensitive in the wake of his climax, but any pain was soon forgotten as he snuggled into John’s arms, the two of them holding each other silently for what felt like hours but was, in reality, only a few minutes.

“Any chance of that risotto now?” Ronny asked eventually. “I’m fucking hungry.”

“Me too,” John agreed enthusiastically, jumping up with a new burst of energy.

“Meh, you’re always hungry,” laughed Ronny, cautiously getting to his feet and wondering whether he’d be able to walk properly after that ‘proper good shagging’ he’d just received.

John smiled sweetly and offered out his hand. Ronny took it and the pair of them wandered through to the kitchen hand in hand to enjoy a well deserved feast, both glad that things had ended up the way they did, and both feeling positive for the future.

 

***

 

Sherlock actually went to sleep at a normal time that night. 2am. That was about as normal as it got for him. He was in an unusually good mood. The last twenty four hours had been, for want of a better word, brilliant. He’d solved a fairly interesting and quite exciting case that had involved some degree of danger; he’d made some progress in his broken friendship with John; he’d successfully caused his new flatmate to hand in his notice due to the head in the fridge; and he had the promise of a new flatmate in the form of Molly, someone who genuinely understood and appreciated him. Before retiring to the bedroom, he paused by the fireplace, studying the skull with a small frown on his face and suddenly feeling like there wasn’t much point in him having a new skull. Without really analysing why, he picked it up and tossed it into the bin, crossing through the kitchen and into his room.


End file.
